02 April 2012

One of the supposed benefits of religious belief is that it
gives comfort to those whose loved ones have passed away. The thought that they
will be reunited in the afterlife no doubt gives some ease to the crushing sense of loss
felt by the bereaved. This is entirely understandable, and I will never mock a
grieving person’s need to believe that one day, they will see their deceased
wife, mother, brother, or friend once more.

But those who do not believe in the existence of an
afterlife, who reject dualism and its concept of a mind or soul that survives
our physical death, lack this comfort. They acknowledge that death is implacably
final. They know that their last cry of “goodbye” to a lost loved one will not
be assuaged with the possibility of a joyous “hello again”. Given this, why
would anyone choose to disbelieve? I would like to think
that it is because disbelievers like me would rather swallow bitter truths than
sip sweet illusions. We draw strength and courage, if not comfort, from hewing
to the principle that it is the very finiteness of a human life that makes it
so precious. Since each of us only has one ride on this rollercoaster before
its eternal termination, we should cherish every moment – and every person
sharing our journey – while it lasts.

The brave stoicism of the disbeliever when faced with the death of a loved one is exemplified by author and science populariser Ann Druyan,
widow of the late astronomer and educator Carl Sagan, who died in 1996 after a
long battle with myelodysplasia. Druyan’s words below testify to the fact that
disbelief in an afterlife, far from diminishing the value of our love for
others, can actually enhance its worth by letting us see the special bond between
two people for what it is – an amazingly lucky gift that was given to them just
once, and when broken by death, never given again.

“When my husband died, because he was so
famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me — it
still sometimes happens — and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted
to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see
him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge
in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again.
I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when
we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation
of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by
pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that
we were alive and we were together was miraculous — not miraculous in the sense
of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That
pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as
Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the
vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for
twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful…

The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each
other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the
idea I will see him someday. I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw
him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was
wonderful.”